


between the shadow and the soul

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 01:10:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13602411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: It's late, and John can't sleep.  A phone call turns into a game, and the game... becomes something else entirely.





	between the shadow and the soul

 

 

“Are you there, Finch?”

His whisper-soft voice seems to rustle in the cavernous space of his loft as he stares at the ceiling.  His bedside clock blinks 2:14 AM.  He doesn’t really expect Harold to answer; they’ve both had a long day finishing up a number, and Harold should be sound asleep by now.  

The loft is the one place Harold has turned off all electronic surveillance for multiple reasons, or so Harold says: for his privacy, for his safety.  Secretly, it pleases John to think that it’s simply because, for an immensely paranoid man, Harold trusts him.

He hasn’t ever told Harold that he keeps his earpiece on even in bed.  While John is confident enough in his abilities to protect himself should this loft be compromised, he’s still sometimes besieged with flitting, worrisome thoughts that one of these days, all of the enemies they’ve made—including the ones after the Machine—will have finally found Harold, and John might fail to be there to protect him because he will have slept through the entire thing.  He isn’t willing to take that chance.  

When he said ‘ _always’_ , he meant it.

Still, when he’s met with silence on the other end of the line, it’s oddly comforting to know that Harold is safe for another day.  The sheets rustle as he turns on his side, wishing he can do something about his insomnia but unwilling to ingest any drug that might knock him out—what if Harold suddenly needs him?—when his eyes snap open when he hears the line click to life.

He has a full nanosecond of terror before Harold’s sleep-hoarse voice comes in the line.  “ _Is something the matter, Mr. Reese?_ ”

For a moment, John is too caught up in the surprise of finding  _Harold_ awake at this time of the night that he can’t speak; then he hears the all-too-familiar ambient sound of a machine buzzing in the background.  “Finch,” he says slowly, disbelief and accusation injecting into his tone, “are you in the  _library_?”

His question is met with the sound of Harold yawning, and John all at once feels guilty to realise he might have  _woken_ him, concerned at the fact that Harold is still  _working_ , and amused at how adorable that sound is coming from Harold.  “ _Just about finished updating our cover identities_ ,  _making them more airtight for our safety,_ ” Harold answers; John hears a creaking sound in the background, which means Harold has just stood up from his chair, presumably to stretch overworked muscles.  John fervently hopes Harold hasn’t forgotten to take his pain medication.  “ _John Warren needed to have more details ironed out, and Harold Wren had to prepare for a presentation he’ll be giving the board next week._ ”

It sounds like a helluva lot of work for one night, considering that they just wrapped up a number.  It reminds John how even though most of the field work is done by him, it’s actually Harold who finishes up everything—and it’s when his own less technically-astute skills prove useless.   “I wish I could help,” he offers sadly.

“ _You do more than enough, Mr. Reese, thank you,_ ” Harold answers softly; John’s toes curl with pleasure at the warmth that suffuses his limbs at the sentiment.  “ _But I must say, I’m a bit worried about this late-night call.  Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Reese?_ ”

So he isn’t the only one constantly worrying about the welfare of his partner, even at this time of night.  John allows the smile to spread acrosshis face, knowing that Harold can’t see it.  “I just wanted to hear your voice, Finch,” he teases.

“…  _Oh.”_ Harold sounds startled, but not displeased, and John would’ve given anything to see Harold’s face in that moment.  “ _So is this your way of asking for a bedtime story, then?”_

John adamantly refuses to be flustered by the unexpected outcome of Harold teasing  _back_.  “Well, I  _am_ having trouble sleeping,” he answers as he rolls over to his back, hoping he doesn’t sound as giddy as he feels.

“ _We can’t have that, can we,”_ Harold answers, and John shivers at the low, slow cadence of the words.   _“And what would you like to hear tonight, Mr. Reese?”_

The agency has taught him to always be in charge of any situation, but if John is being honest to himself, he has given up control a long time ago.

He closes his eyes and takes the plunge.  “Surprise me, Harold.”

He hears the huff of soft laughter at the other end of the line, and he smiles as he hears the sound of Harold puttering around in the library.  He strains to listen to the rhythm of Harold’s uneven gait, pleased to note that he doesn’t seem to be in any pain.  Harold seems to be muttering random words under his breath—reading book titles, John realises—until he lets out an “ _Ah_!” of satisfaction as he seems to have found what he’s looking for.

“ _Cien Sonetos de Amor.”_

John is surprised at the choice.  “Pablo Neruda.”

Harold sounds equally startled.  “ _You know your poetry, Mr. Reese,_ ” he murmurs with a note of admiration.

“And you know your Spanish,” John counters curiously at the revelation.  “I must admit, I never pictured you as the type to be into Chilean Communists.”

“ _On the contrary, Mr. Reese,”_ Harold huffs indignantly, and John has to bite back his smile, _“though while I am not a particular fan of the man’s politics, his poetry resonates universally when it comes to the mysteries of the heart.”_

“Oh?”  This time John scoots up in bed, his own heart beginning to quicken at the implications.  “Such as?”

He hears the rustling of pages as the book is opened.  “ _Soneto Decisiete,”_ Harold murmurs.  “ _How good is your Spanish, Mr. Reese?”_

“A little rusty, but passable.”  Why has Harold chosen the seventeenth sonnet out of the one hundred?

“ _Then perhaps we can consider this as your exercise in the language_ ,” Harold offers playfully.

John grins.  Only Harold can make an innocent bedtime story into a game.  “Polishing my skill set, boss?  I didn’t know further education was part of the job when you hired me.  You are full of surprises, Mr. Finch.”

“ _As are you, John_ ,” Harold says softly, and whatever teasing banter John has been ready to say dies on his lips at the unexpected tenderness in his ear.

His heart rate inexplicably spikes.

Rhythmic footsteps followed by the creaking of a chair signal that Harold has returned to his desk.  “ _Are you settled in, Mr. Reese?”_

Something in Harold’s voice wraps around him like a blanket—ensconcing him in warmth, comfort, and safety.

_Home._

“Yes,” he breathes.

He can’t see Harold, but he swears he hears him smile.  “ _If you would translate for me, please?”_

John swallows.  “I’ll try my best.”

Harold makes a sound of pleased affirmation, before he starts.  “ _No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio, o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego_.”

He speaks Spanish like a native, making John wonder if Harold had spent some time in a Spanish-speaking country to have been that fluent.  He’s been too wrapped up in the hypnotic cadence of Harold’s voice—and his remarkably fluid pronunciation—that the ensuing silence snaps him into the realisation that Harold is waiting for  _him._

“Oh, uh…” he struggles to find the right words for the translation in his head.  “I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,” he says haltingly, “or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.”

“ _Very good, Mr. Reese,”_ Harold murmurs, making John shiver at the praise.  He doesn’t understand why Harold has picked this particular poem, but aside from the motivations, he’s beginning to wonder at the poet’s intended meaning too.  The metaphors are all beautiful things—fiery things—and the last one in particular reminds John of gunfire, mesmerising in its power.  And yet the poet—and Harold—does not love that way.

What is Harold trying to say?

“ _Te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,_ ” Harold continues, as if in answer to his unspoken question, “ _secretamente, entre la sombre y el alma._ ”

John isn’t quite able to mask the way his breath catches.  He remembers a bar, a deceptively happily married husband who took over the life he left behind, and the woman who renamed him reminding him of who they really are.

‘ _We don’t walk in the dark.  We_ ** _are_** _the dark.’_

“… _Mr. Reese?_ ”

Harold’s voice gently breaks through the memory, tethering him back to the present.  He swallows, trying not to let his voice shake.  “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,” he whispers, “in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

There is a significant pause on the other end of the line, as if Harold is weighing something he wants to say, and John suddenly, desperately wants to ask:  _is this_ ** _your_** _secret?_

Harold clears his throat, startling them both, before John hears him hesitantly continue.  “ _Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva,_ ” Harold says softly, “ _dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores_ ,”

John leans back on the pillows, unsure of why he feels a sudden, tightening ache in his chest.  “I love you as the plant that never blooms,” he murmurs, “but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.”  

He remembers how Harold would look at Grace, and how—ever the gentleman—he courted her in the traditional way, slowly and patiently.  He remembers how Grace loves flowers and how she herself blooms like one, delicate and pure.

Harold is not talking about Grace this time.  Not when he is speaking of a light that he sees hidden within the darkness.

Something akin to hope begins to unfurl in his chest, weakly beating against his ribs like a hatchling’s flapping wing.

“ _Y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo_ ,” Harold continues, every syllable as palpable as fingers on John’s naked skin, stroking and caressing, “ _el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.”_

John shudders, the sensuality of the words heightened by the tone Harold uses—low and deliberate.  “Thanks to your love,” he rasps, “a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.”  His fingers curl against the blankets, helpless at the image Harold is conjuring: a darkness that seeps through Harold’s skin itself, a darkness that Harold doesn’t fear, but one that he welcomes.  One that he  _craves_.

This isn’t just about love, John realises, sudden and sure. This is also about  _desire_.  

“Harold,” he chokes, desperately hoping he isn’t interpreting this wrong.

He hears Harold take a deep, shaky breath, and when he next speaks, it isn’t quite so steady anymore.  “ _Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde—_ ” Harold begins, before he stops, seemingly overcome.

John closes his eyes at the welling of emotion that tightens his throat, and opens himself up to the wave that crashes over them both.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where _—_ ”

“ _Te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo—”_

“I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride _—_ ”

Harold’s voice is audibly trembling now.  “ _Así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera—”_

_“_ So I love you because I know no other way,” John breaks off with a gasp.  He’s breathing heavily, as if he’s been wading through the bloody cesspools of Afghanistan and Iraq again.  He knows, though, that this is a battle that isn’t meant to be won.  Not this time.

He’s ready to surrender.

There is a charged silence on the other end of the line, but John isn’t worried.  He’s well acquainted with that kind of silence—intimately so.  

It’s the kind that’s always listening.

He reaches up, tenderly running a finger through the earpiece.  “And how do you love, Harold?” John murmurs.  He has to ask, has to know, has to  _understand,_ because he finally realises that this isn’t a game.

It’s a declaration.

“ _Sino así de este modo en que no soy ni ares,_ ” Harold answers softly.

There had been a time in Mexico when everything faded away; when nothing else mattered at that moment than being with the one person he loved above all.

“Than this: where I does not exist, nor you.”

He never thought he’d ever have that again.

“ _Tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pechos es mía.”_

He never thought he’d ever feel…  _more._

“So close that your hand on my chest is my hand.”

Because this isn’t just happiness.

_“Tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño_.”

This… is being  _complete._

“So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”

He hears Harold let out a shuddering exhale, yet somehow it’s  _John_ who feels it in his bones; he feels like he has just come up for air after a lifetime of drowning, like the sludge and grime of doubt and fear and self-recrimination is finally sloughing off his body after keeping him submerged for so long.  

It feels like his first breath—like he’s being reborn.  

Like he’s finally…  _whole_.

“Does this mean that if I go to sleep now, you finally will, too?” John murmurs, dizzying euphoria warring with exhausted relief.  It feels like his bones have liquified, and he wants to melt back into the sheets.

“ _Perhaps,_ ” Harold answers enigmatically, teasingly, and John feels a thrill shoot up his spine; he’s pretty sure the grin on his face is making him look like a lunatic.  “ _Go to sleep, John,_ ” Harold’s voice gentles, like a loving brush of his hand on John’s hair, and John tips his head back, allowing himself to  _feel_  it. “ _And I promise, when you wake up tomorrow morning… the sentiment will remain the same.”_

“Oh?” John breathes at the reassurance, the unspoken promise of  _always._ He slides his body under the sheets, already feeling his eyelids become heavy, and presses his cheek on the cool pillow.  “Only until tomorrow morning?”

Harold laughs, soft and warm, and John immediately decides that he wants to hear that sound everyday for the rest of his life—for as long as he can have it, with Harold.  

And Harold seems to hear his thoughts.

“ _Until I remind you every night,”_ he answers; and when John closes his eyes, he can perfectly picture Harold’s smile.  “ _After all, there are ninety-nine sonnets left._ ”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, my dear POI fandom. :)
> 
> You can listen to the beautiful poem [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sKjzEHqPHQs).


End file.
